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Since our co-laureat T Darkstar has taken the season-as-epic into his capable hands, I wanted to offer this as a complementary piece to his next installment: a pre-game poem.  Enjoy...?

Waiting for the Spurs

--What are we doing, gathered in this sports bar in the mall?

            The spurs are arriving today.

--Why is nothing happening in the library?

   Why do the adjuncts sit making no discussion questions?

            Because the spurs are arriving today.

            What is there for the adjuncts to discuss now?

            When the spurs come, they will dictate the level of discourse.

--Why did our mayor wake up with the clouds

   and in his office sit in state

   in his swivel chair, wearing a silver tie pin.

            Because the spurs are arriving today,

            and the mayor is waiting for a conference call

            with Gregg Popovich.  In fact,

he prepared a lullaby in which

he wrote in many euphemisms and epithets.

--Why did our street cleaners

   come out this morning in their crimson embroidered togas;

   why did they don a slow-moving truck

   resplendent with amethysts and emeralds of reclaimed water;

   why do they point beautifully wrought hoses

   at our sidewalks and gutters?

            Because the spurs are arriving today,

            and such things dazzle Bruce Bowen.

--Why don’t the worthy urchins come as usual

   to bum cigarettes around the square?

            Because the spurs are arriving today

            and they do not smoke.

--Why should this angst and bravado

   erupt from us. (How sanctimonious our faces have become.)

   Why has the downtown emptied so quickly

   into the pensive, delicate suburbs.

            Because day has ended and the spurs are thought to have arrived.

            Though some people came in from the video poker room

            and they say the spurs no longer exist.

--Now what will we do without the spurs?

   Those guys were some kind of problem.